


Best Before (not bad after)

by kuro49



Category: DCU
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blow Jobs, Come Swallowing, Creampie, M/M, Magical Healing Cock, Mildly Dubious Consent, or the AU where jason never gets dunked in the lazarus pit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:34:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23355526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuro49/pseuds/kuro49
Summary: It's probably written somewhere within the laws of the universe that Jason Todd always comes back, one way or another.In this one, Slade has a healing cock. Naturally, Jason makes use of it.
Relationships: Jason Todd/Slade Wilson
Comments: 12
Kudos: 222





	Best Before (not bad after)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [inihiu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inihiu/gifts).



> you read the summary and you still clicked in. i'm sorry for what you're about to read where jason is slutty for no other reason than because i want him to be 😔 based on [this fanart inihiu drew](https://twitter.com/jasontidds/status/1183922197003243520). happy birthdaaaay to the horniest pervert i know <33 sorry for having significantly less nip play than i was hoping to write for you.
> 
> special thanks to Romiress for all the canon sexy nurse Slade Wilson arc info, in which none of it was incorporated into the fic because this fic was already beyond help.

Slade comes into shift and meets John Doe. 

John Doe can be eighteen if Slade is being generous. But really he looks about sixteen, could pass for fifteen too when he's got his shoulders curled in on themselves, knees pulled to his chest, and head ducked down so the black curls on his head falls over half his face. Sitting in the center of the hospital bed, just as he is now, washed out by the harsh fluorescent lights of the room.

John Doe was picked up by a good Samaritan, dropped off at the emergency department before he got shuffled from department to department.

They treated him for all of his superficial wounds. And there are plenty of those. The most significant injuries being the ones to his hands: splinters of wood being picked out, broken and split and torn nails bloody, dirt and cuts littered across his knuckles and his fingertips.

And then there are all the other injuries, the historic ones.

John Doe looks like he's lived through a life of abuse if truth be told. Tiny little starbursts of cigarette burns dotting along the inside of his forearms, bones fractured then set and then fractured again showing on his x-rays, tendrils of long jagged scars running across his skin at random. Holding centerfold is a scar that is made Y in shape, going down the torso and around the belly button like an autopsy scar would except that can't be real. 

Or, so the assumption goes when John Doe breathes and moves on his own.

Except the kid is unresponsive to any of it, staying still at turns, near catatonic. Even when John Doe responds, it is almost like muscle memory, making near animalistic noises as he reacts. Made all the worse when he is strong enough to pull his IV line out and back himself into a corner of the hospital room while blood gets everywhere. Sometimes they are able to restrain him and he is pliant, breathing thin enough that there is barely any movement to his chest. Sometimes he gets out of the same restraints in less time than it takes for the orderlies to even take a single step back before he is already lashing out.

Today, John Doe settles almost subdued in the center of his hospital bed, eyes darting off in the furthest corner of the room they have him in.

There are plenty of black hair blue eyed boys in Gotham, and Slade may have only met the second Robin once before but Slade can pick him out of a line up off of a recruiting poster for Batman’s child soldiers if he must. 

And it'll take hardly any effort at all.

Slade lifts the boy's head up with a finger just beneath the chin.

"Hey, little Robin." Slade greets, but he doesn't really expect an answer when he muses to himself. "How'd you get this far from where they buried you?" No answer in words, not even a spark of fear in those eyes. Slade gets an idea, it's probably a terrible one. That doesn't stop him though. Slade chuckles as he looks into the aimless stretch of ocean blue blinking slowly up at him. "Wanna come home with me?"

There is no answer to wait for. He steals him away that same night.

It's an impulse decision.

It's not even a very good one when compared to his list of all his previous impulsive decisions.

Wintergreen takes one look at him, and laughs. Full-bellied and loud, near booming in the living room of Slade's two bedroom safehouse.

The sound is not nearly enough to make the second Robin who is currently tucked into the corner of the same room flinch. It hardly even gets the kid to look away from where he stares into thin air.

Slade asks in question. "Would you believe me if I tell you I thought this through?"

"And would you believe me if I tell you I _know_ you?" Wintergreen asks in answer.

Slade has a smart enough head to know to keep his mouth from spitting out another retort. Knows it won't end well for him if he replies at all with anything other than absolute acceptance when it comes to one William Randolph Wintergreen. So he scowls deeply and takes the dossier held out from Billy's hands. Picking up a stray little damaged bird that crawled out of his grave before he could completely rot through to the core was never a part of Slade's plans when he went undercover as a temp nurse for a target.

Especially not when Billy's got job after job lined up for him as soon as he puts a bullet into this one. There's no other consideration that he hasn't already blown through. Time's a ticking, that's for sure.

Slade doesn't put the second Robin back where he found him though.

It's never been for him, but Slade supposes there's an appeal to keeping a pretty bird in a gilded cage. 

Except Jason Todd is not a bird and this safehouse of his is hardly a cage to keep anyone if they truly wanted to leave. Which leaves the glaring question of what Slade gains from this at all. Except even with his head whirling quicker than anything else, Slade isn't so sure he knows.

His best guess is compulsion.

His second best guess is investment, that this could turn out to be quite the weapon in his arsenal on the chance it ever even comes to that.

Slade opens the door and is greeted by the sight of Jason in the exact same spot as where he's left him almost twelve hours ago. The television droning on the same channel, the cup of water next to him left untouched, the plate of apple slices all brown and dried out. It's probably a good thing Slade left the IV drip in.

"No welcome home?" He asks the kid, ruffling the unruly locks as he walks by to dump his duffle bag of equipment by the back wall. He doesn't expect a response, and he doesn't get a reply just as he thought. "What'd you think about brussel sprouts tonight?"

It's almost enough just to hear the kid pulling another breath in, and a ragged breath out. The air shudders through him like it is taking all of his energy just for this basic function alone. Eyes open but nothing really behind them. Jason is skinny in Slade's spare shirts. He knows the kid was never big even at the height of his Robin days. Not lean like Grayson was but downright tiny. Like malnutrition at the cusp of a slow recovery.

When Slade returns to where Jason is seated, there is a movement of his head. A slight tilt so he is angled to look up at Slade. Jason's mouth parts, and it's slow. There is no rasp or gasp or even a hoarse croak of a single syllable. His tongue peeks out, lingering before he drags it across his cracked bottom lip.

"You can have stew." Slade decides and picks him up, careful of his IV line as he does.

He brings him to the kitchen table and sets him down on one of the chairs. Jason sways for a few seconds before he settles. Slade goes to start dinner. 

The couch is empty.

Jason is not where he left him, and there are plenty of good reasons why he wouldn't be. Except it is all of the bad ones that come to mind. Slade scans the room, finds Wintergreen sitting in the armchair in the corner of the living room with his legs propped up on an ottoman and a spread of today's newspaper across his lap.

"Billy." Slade says in greeting, in question, in thinly veiled accusation just shy of an interrogation.

Wintergreen looks up and even looks adequately impressed with how much Slade managed to cram into the two syllables of his name. For Slade's efforts, Billy rewards him with a nod to the closed bedroom door, and says. "Your little gold fish doesn't look like he's doing too well."

Crossing the room in a few brisk steps, Slade pauses with a hand on the door knob. "He's not dead." 

Wintergreen really looks at him, says to him. "Maybe he should be."

When Slade pushes open the door and steps into the bedroom, there is Jason tied down with the entirety of the room trashed beyond recognition. 

A quick scan and it's obvious his fingers need to be splinted. The sheets are streaked in blood red hand prints. There isn't a single piece of furniture in the room that is left intact, even the head board of the bed frame is cracked down the center to split the double bed in half. Lying in the dip of the broken bed, mattress sagging, Jason lays there and he isn't fighting against the makeshift binds created out of the torn ripped sheets.

Seems like he's already fought his share when he doesn't even flinch as Slade closes the door behind him. 

"Hey kid," at his voice, Jason cranes his neck to him, narrows his eyes at him, "you scared the old guy out there."

He lets his comment sit before he goes into the connecting bathroom for the first aid kit. He looks at the mirror and sees how it is shattered, glances down at the giant chunk missing from the ceramic sink, and then further down to the bloody foot prints left across the tiles from the shards.

Slade shakes the dust and the glass and the debris from the top of the kit and comes back to the bed. Jason stays perfectly still as he unties him. Doesn't even move to probe at the bright red rings of irritation around his wrists. Slade think he's got an idea of what made the kid go crazy. It's there on the front page of today's Gotham Gazette that Billy had with him.

He just didn't think the kid is capable of comprehension that it was a different bird flying at the Bat's side last night.

"Looks like you're sleeping with me until I get a chance to replace everything in here."

Jason doesn't look away from him. Slade starts with picking out the bits of glass from Jason's bare feet.

Maybe there is something to be salvaged here after all.

It's quite the wake up call.

Warm and wet and tight, and Slade savours the sensation before realization registers like an especially harsh right hook. Nearly on par with being hit head on by a ten tonne truck, and he knows exactly how that one feels. Trepidation is not an emotion familiar to Slade Wilson but as he grabs the edge of the sheets, he feels it sinking deep and low in his gut right beside the arousal that burns like a simmering flame rigged to explode in simple physiological reaction.

Slade goes through with the motion, he lifts the sheets. 

Sees the mused mob of Jason's hair before he sees that mouth: Swollen red and stretched wide around the girth of Slade's cock. 

Jason is glancing up at him from beneath a thick fan of lashes, almost lazily, eyes teary, and Slade is pretty fucking sure the head of his cock is hitting the back of that tender throat with how fucking good it feels. There is drool down his chin, all shiny around the seal of his lips. The kid's got his nose buried against the white curls of Slade's pubic hair with how far he sinks down to.

And it's almost impressive, on both accounts, when Slade bites out with all the control he doesn't have: "What the actual fuck, kid." 

He grabs at Jason’s hair, not gentle but careful and tries to drag the kid off his cock like he doesn't have any wish to simply shove in even deeper until the little bird is choking audibly on his cock, until he is fucking his face with a few short brutal thrusts to come down the soft fluttering clutch of that throat.

Except Jason is whining.

Deep and guttural as though he’s at a loss when Slade tries to bodily get him off. And it is pitiful really if it doesn’t make Slade swell up faster and harder inside of that mouth when it’s the first real noise he’s gotten out of the kid. And, _well_ , Slade thinks as he comes to just that exact sound, _fuck_.

Slade is breathing hard, more from the shock of all this than how fast he came. He yanks the sheets off entirely, sitting up straight with his shorts still pulled down under his softening cock while the kid remains settled on his knees between Slade's thighs. Jason hasn't looked away from him, blinking the water from those blue eyes at him.

Opening up wide enough to show Slade the inside of his mouth with it sloppy wet with excess spit and all of Slade's cum near spilling over the soft pink dart of his tongue. 

“Kid, do _not_ do what I think you’re goin' to—”

Except Jason does. Jason snaps his jaw close before Slade could even get his full warning out. Tips his head back to bare his throat, a bob of his Adam's apple, and Jason is swallowing all of it whole.

Slade curses on a groan, sees the face Jason makes as it goes all the way down, blanching at the awful pungent taste of semen that lingers. He coughs a little too and Slade leans forward and rubs a hand up and down Jason's back. Slade can't help but mutter to himself, feeling the start of a headache coming on. "And why'd _fuck_ would you do that?"

For a good long second, when Jason looks up at him from beneath his lashes, it's not just an empty vast of blue.

Slade furrows his brows because there's recognition there, and—

"I wanted to."

The little bird answers him with something a lot like clarity. His voice is rough and hoarse from being long out of use, raspy too but that's probably from deepthroating all of Deathstroke in one go.

For the panic and the monumental tinge of rare guilt, a terrible thought comes to mind for Slade when he finally remembers to think at all.

Slade is a meta-human.

Made from super soldier serum injected into his veins to remake him into something beyond human. Enhanced senses, superhuman strength and speed, accelerated healing and regeneration, the whole nine yards and then some when it comes to stamina and agility and reflexes too. Grant and Joey and Rose all showed abilities, and Slade knows it didn't come from Adeline or Lilian.

He just never thought it could work quite like this either.

But of fucking course it would. That somehow the fill of Slade's cum inside of Jason helps with his recovery. Almost exponentially so, like some bad porno.

"Inside." Jason tells him, and he is insistent on it when he's got one hand fisting Slade's shirt and tugging.

His cheeks are flushed a very bright pink from exertion, mouth parted on each gasp and every little _ah_ 's that is knocked out of him each time Slade bottoms out. Jason chokes, and it sounds an awful lot like a plea when he yanks at Slade's shirt again, murmuring around a particularly obscene moan if just to complete the scene.

"It feels better when you come inside."

"Fuckin' hell." Slade groans at the provocation, leans down and nips at Jason’s jaw, worries at the soft skin there until Jason is breathing hard and clenching down harder. Slade licks a broad stripe where his teeth leave a mark, gets Jason shivering in delight when he growls out. "Aren't you just something else, kid." 

"Come on, Slade." Jason keens, grinding down with every ounce of remaining strength in his hips even with all of Slade already buried inside of him. Asking for more where there's no room for any at all. The thick head of Slade's cock rubs at the very back of his passage, and it's like Jason can pass out from that sensation alone.

Slade's name is said in repeat, broken up in tempo with the way Jason bounces in his lap.

He is lithe but he's no longer skin and bones. Slade isn't sure if Jason's going to grow any taller or pick up any more weight in muscles but he finally looks like he is more than halfway towards healthy with that flush beneath his skin, freckles in sharp contrast where they are sprinkled across his shoulders down to his arms. Slade doesn't categorize all of the existing scars he sees, but he does indulge in running a thumb down the edge of the authentic autopsy scar, just taking it all in stride.

When he grabs Jason by the hips and tips him backwards, the kid yelps loud enough for the sound to ring in Slade's ear as he is toppled over to be laid out flat against the bed they've been sharing for weeks now.

The motion somehow manages to impale Slade even deeper inside of Jason's welcoming body. And the heat floods them both.

Jason is tearing into the sheets with his blunt fingernails, and as the rest of him is shaking through a dry orgasm, all of his words gone, Slade fucks him down from it. His hips building up a steady pace as he angles his cock just right to have it dragging over Jason's prostate every time he pulls out just to push right back in. 

Jason might be sobbing a little by the time Slade finally bottoms out one final time, coming inside of him.

Jason's the brightest and at his sharpest just after Slade gives him his fill. 

Whether it is across Jason's tongue to be swallowed down or splashing hot and wet and thick inside of his ass until he is completely sated, it doesn't seem to particularly matter as long as it ends up somewhere in him. He doesn't return to those early days where he is more or less brain dead without a fill, but Jason does withdraw if he goes too long without it. He would zone out in the middle of a simple task as he goes a little blank behind the eyes like the lights are on inside the house but he's only got one foot in the door.

And that's the fitting analogy that Slade has been using. 

When he first picked up John Doe from the hospital, he is a house with all the lights on but no one home. And Slade can be pounding at the door expecting an answer except there won't be one. That faint echo of an answer from inside the home is only becoming progressively louder and clearer the more times they do this. And now.

Jason walks. Jason talks. Jason even bites back.

"You've stretched me out to exactly your size." The kid tells him pointedly, grin pulling at his lips, not looking one bit shameful at the fact that he's got his own hand between his legs, three fingers pumping in and out of himself, pushing home where the wet slide of cum keeps leaking out.

Slade's grin is similar in the angle of the curve, just like the motion when he brings his own hand between Jason's thighs. He slips his fingers in alongside to join the kid's where he is puffy at the rim and coloured the prettiest red to match the flush in his cheeks.

"Know how you can thank me for all my hard work?"

Making the lewdest filthiest noise when it's still so warm and slick and messy where they were connected, right where Jason's been putting his cock to very thorough use.

"Round four?"

Slade laughs at Jason's answer, easily slotting back into place between the wide spread of those thighs, telling him. "'s just round two for me, baby."

Slade does replace all of the furniture in the second bedroom but Jason never does move back into it.

Instead Jason stays with him, never once mentioning about the Bats that fly overhead of Gotham in the night.

Jason spends his time relearning. Some days the progress is slow, some days he is soaking it all up like a sponge. He relearns himself and the world. From the books Wintergreen leaves to the Internet he accesses through the secured laptop Slade made available to the gym equipment lying in storage and also every last piece of stray weaponry Slade leaves around the safehouse.

He also spends his time on Slade's cock.

Mouth working up and down the shaft, tongue tracing a prominent vein from the base to the head before he is wrapping his lips around the crown and hollowing out his cheeks to suck. Jason is on all fours over Slade while Slade's got both hands on Jason's hips, his fingertips finding the same placeholders he's marked out of the jut of the kid's pelvis.

Slade is using his lips and his tongue and teeth to eat Jason out.

It's the slow crawl of pleasure lighting up a map along all of Jason's nerve endings that are still learning how to register pleasure. Crying out, and it's innate. Jason's thighs are trembling at the effort to keep himself up, and also from bucking into Slade's face when Slade nips at his rim. Grinding down, and the noises Jason makes in answer is muffled by the head of Slade's cock pinning his tongue down.

Slade leaves an imprint of his teeth around the sweet curve of Jason's ass, doesn't draw blood only because he's already dragging enough sweet noises from the seam of Jason's mouth still wrapped around his cock. He brings a hand down sharply across one cheek, lets that soft muffled whimper taper off into silence before he asks with his eye skimming over the bright red mark.

"Where'd you want me to finish, kid?"

Slade poses these questions to Jason not because there's any confusion but because it's cute watching the kid working through the process of making the decision for himself. The answer is that he's going to get Slade coming inside of his mouth and his ass by the time the sun's coming up. But there's plenty of time before that.

"First?" Jason asks and it's sopping wet as he pulls off. He cranes his head back to look at Slade where he is behind him.

"Yea, kid. You decide."

And it takes Slade's nod and a verbal confirmation to prompt him for more.

"I want it here." Jason tells him, lowering his mouth back down, kissing the crown of Slade's cock before his tongue is laving over the slit with a single minded focus. Pooling drool to drip down the shaft as he brings his hand up to curl around the base, smearing spit where his lips aren't all over.

Slade obliges, because how _do_ you resist this?

Slade looms over Jason, and it should probably be a terrifying experience but the kid just squirms against the sheets. Used to the position but also to Slade. Trying to thrust his hips up even if Slade's got him pinned to the mattress by both wrists over his head. 

"You want revenge?" Slade asks in the clarity provided by an afterglow even as he sets them on a steady course for the next one.

Jason is gazing up at him, and the blue in those eyes are still that endless depth but there's life breathed into them. The fire flickers and crackles in his reply. "I don't know."

"You've got time." Slade tells him, lets Jason really feel the rake of his teeth across his ribs as he moves up and up. The rub of his beard promising a wicked burn.

It might be the startling realization of what he's saying at all. Or, it might be the way he takes a nipple into his mouth, swiping his tongue over it to get it harden under the broad sweep when Jason yelps for him. The sound loud and sharp and lived in.

Jason pushes at Slade's head, gets a good grip in his hair too as he _yanks_. And this too is new.

"Slade, did y—" Jason's flushed and breathless when he finally gets Slade's mouth away from his chest, and the disbelief is not a bad look on him at all. "Did you just say you'll wait?"

Slade doesn't interfere, not in any of the parts of Jason's developing routine that involves any mention of a Bat. And he won't until Jason asks him to. He may not be a good man and even Wintergreen seems to think so when his initial reaction to the sight of Slade coming out of the bedroom with the kid trailing after him with no confusion as to what they've been doing is the absence of any real surprise.

But he's not a thorough-bred grade A asshole even if he always seem to end up in bed with the pets he keeps.

"I've waited this long for you to come to your senses." Slade tells him, going for Jason's neck next with intent even if he keeps him pinned, murmuring low enough to make it hard to hear his question when he asks it. "What's a bit longer?"

The fact is that they are far too close for anything to be missed. It doesn't just go one way here. And Jason knows it when he chortles, says. "I didn't take you for a patient man."

Slade wonders if he's getting soft. Wonders if that would be such a bad thing.

"You don't know the kind of man I am."

"I've got time to learn."

There's no best before date here. No timeline or deadline to adhere to. Jason is staring up at a ceiling that he's grown to know, lashes fluttering shut at the familiar texture of Slade's sheets bunching up in his hands where they're pinned above his head. Control relinquished is control gained. There's comfort here when Slade's mouth curls at Jason's words, and Jason feels it hot over his throat.

Jason bites his lips in anticipation for that promised sink of teeth. Slade doesn't disappoint.


End file.
